For Good
by piperholmes
Summary: Sybil's eyes grew large with shock, her gaze flew to her father, then her son, and finally her husband. She could't have heard correctly, not this, not after all this time. But the shame and heartache that burned on Tom's face testified to the truth. Everyone sat frozen, waiting, as the words her little boy had uttered buzzed about, stinging the lies of complacency. And it hurt.
1. Chapter 1

**For Good**

**Part 1 of 4**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: This was suppose to be just a oneshot but it refused to conform to what I had imagined it to be so now you get a four part story. This is just my imaginings on future family interactions between the Crawleys and the Bransons and the effect it has on the children. I've resisted naming any of Tom and Sybil's children just because I hate the idea of being out of cannon, but it was necessary for this story. I went with a name that I know other author's have used but it was always my "go to" name. Thank you to those who continue to show support—it is absolutely appreciated—and please enjoy! (Oh, yeah, as always this isn't beta'd so my apologies for any horrid typos or grammatical errors)**

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"Robert Thomas Branson! Stop it this instant!" Sybil Branson ordered sharply.

Her eyes grew huge at the sight before her, her five year old son—almost a perfect miniature of her husband except for the plump lips which were so obviously hers—stood boldly in a massacre of words as a sea of white pages littered the floor.

He glared at her, but dropped the book he was holding and stood immovable in the middle of his grandfather's extensive library.

"What…what are you doing?" Sybil demanded quietly, her tone more shocked than outraged. Her father's books lay scattered about the room and it seemed clear her oldest was responsible, but surely there was a plausible explanation for such uncharacteristic and outlandish behavior.

Her son just stared at her defiantly, his expression hard, making him appear much older than his five years.

"Robbie I asked you a question," she pressed, wishing she could adopt the age-old stance of hands on her hips, but her three year old son, Alfie, clung to one hand, and her hips were well hidden by her large rounded belly. Sweat tickled the back of her neck and she could feel her patience waning. "What happened?"

"Nothin'" he grounded out, his Irish accent thickening.

"This is not nothing," Sybil pointed out, her own words clipped. "Did you do this? Did you pull all these books off the shelves?"

She could see her son's chest rising and falling rapidly, his breath coming hard. He pressed his lips together tightly but finally nodded.

"Why?" she pleaded.

His only answer was to look away from her, blinking his eyes rapidly.

"Robbie," Sybil called, stepping toward him, her voice softer, maternal. "Please, my love, talk to me."

She saw him begin to relent, his shoulders falling, but voices drifted in from the hall and his body stiffened.

"No!" he shouted at her, surprising Sybil and causing Aflie to jump. Robbie's face immediately clouded, and she could see regret shining in his eyes but the tight press of his jaw refused to budge. This was not her loving, obedient, playful son.

Before Sybil could respond the voices from the hall grew louder and soon her father and grandmother had entered the room, much to her consternation.

"What…?" Sybil heard her grandmother begin, but seemed at a lost for words—a first in Sybil's experience.

"Sybil?" her father intoned, reminding Sybil of her own childhood indiscretions. She turned to face her parent, knowing the stern expression that would greet her.

"What is going on here?" he appealed in his most commanding voice.

The young mother took a deep breath, unsure how to approach the situation; knowing her son was responsible but not willing to open him to the grand derisions of the Earl and Dowager Countess.

"I'm not quite certain yet Papa but I…"

"Robbie, explain at once," he interrupted, turning his ire onto the young boy.

The only response he received was Robbie's back straightening defiantly.

Sybil watched as her father's eyes moved over the mess; books fallen open, pages flying in the slight breeze from an open window, their gentle flapping the sound of a flag blowing in the wind, a room of white flags and her son standing stoic at the heart of it all.

"Robbie, answer me," Lord Grantham appealed sternly.

"I won't!"

"Robbie!" Sybil chastised, truly bewildered by her son's actions.

She heard her grandmother sigh dramatically before offering, "Perhaps the boy was confused on the purpose of shelves."

Sybil could only roll her eyes. "Honestly Granny."

The matriarch shrugged. "Well, how am I supposed to know how often the child has frequented a library? I was under the impression your…home didn't boast one."

Her stumbling over the word _home_ effectively communicated her thoughts on Sybil and Tom's humbler abode, and Sybil could feel her own ire growing, as well as the ache in her back intensifying. She wasn't in the mood to face the same arguments and insults today.

"Alfie," she said, turning her attention on her baby and instructed, "Please go get your father. I believe he's upstairs working."

At the mention of his father Robbie's eyes widened and he slowly shook his head. Sybil ignored it and continued her request to her other son. "Tell him Mama needs him in the library and it's important."

Alfie nodded fervently. "Yes Mama. I go get Da an' tell him it's in per tant." And, casting his brother a sad look, he set off, his chubby legs awkwardly moving to carry him as fast as they could.

Sybil looked to her other son. "You will apologize to your grandpapa, and then begin picking these books up."

Robbie turned from her.

"Did you hear your mama?" Robert snapped, moving towards the boy, reaching to place his hand on his namesake's small shoulder.

Robbie whipped around, stumbling backward on the books that littered the floor. "No!" he again shouted, and, once he had found his footing, dashed around his grandfather, passed his mother, and slid behind his great granny to the door.

"Robbie!" Sybil called after him, wanting to run after him, help him, love him, protect him, punish him, anything but watch him disappear. Even if her aristocratic upbringing hadn't frowned on it, Sybil still wouldn't have been able to chase after him. This latest crossing to Downton had been the most difficult for her. Normally her seafaring legs were strong, but this time, with this baby, she had been almost overwhelmed with sickness and poor Alfie had suffered nearly as badly. It took a lot to keep a smile on her face while she cared for the sick baby who, despite Tom's love and devotion, really only wanted his mother. Three days into their two week visit and Sybil was finally starting to feel a bit more like herself, but she doubted very much if the little life insider her would appreciate another jostling.

"Is that an example of the infamous Sinn Féin I've heard so much about?" her Granny quipped innocently, except Sybil knew her Granny was never innocent.

"Sybil?"

She looked to see her husband, a bit breathless, standing in the doorway, holding a panicked Alfie.

Tom's right brow lowered, sending the left high up his forehead as he surveyed the room and the occupants. "What in the world happened here?"

"That's exactly what I'd like to know," boomed Lord Grantham. "I was just in here with Mr. Murray not ten minutes ago. I come back and find Robbie in the middle of this great mess."

"Robbie? You think Robbie did this? Certainly not." Tom scoffed, his defenses immediately engaging.

This was met by a stony glare from her father and Sybil knew she would have to intercede. "It seems so Tom. He told me he did it. Now he's run off, and I'm worried about him. He was so upset."

"_He_ was upset?" Lord Grantham scoffed. "Look at _my _library. I don't know how you allow your children to behave in your own home, but this isn't Ireland and he cannot be allowed to act so wild and destructive."

Tom's expression tightened and Sybil could almost see his back go up at the imperious tone. She could feel her own indignation rise at the insult. She knew it wasn't directed at Robbie, not truly. He may not see Robbie often, a few weeks out of the year typically, but as his grandfather he knew there was no question that this type of behavior was foreign to the young boy's temperament. No, her father was trying to insult her husband, her way of life—just more of the same implications.

Sybil pressed a hand to her forehead briefly, pushing away wisps of her dark hair that always curled so rampantly when she was pregnant. "Papa," she groaned, disappointed by the same old arguments.

Her gazed locked with that of her husband's and she could see her barely contained indignation reflected in his eyes. Years of interaction with her family had taught them, shaped them, and strengthened them. With each thinly veiled insult, moments of condescension or even outright ridicule, they had forged on. They had learned to read each other better, knew when the other needed rescuing, a calm hand or a touch of reassurance, or even when to stay out of it. They had also learned to fight the fights that needed fighting and let everything else go.

Their son matters more than a war of words with the Earl, rehashing the same tired topics.

She watched Tom's jaw work as he swallowed down his anger, his gaze not leaving hers, drawing from her silent plea to help their child. He nodded and set Alfie down.

"I'll go find him," he promised, his eyes purposefully avoiding his father-in-law, cutting him out.

"Perhaps…perhaps I should help," Lord Grantham ventured, his own anger cooling, perhaps regretting his verbal attack. Seeing Sybil's hand go to her face, so like she had all those years ago, had pricked at his conscience. He swore with each visit he was going to be more accepting, more forgiving, but his resolve seemed to always desert him when faced with his former chauffeur, leaving the wound open and sensitive, driving him to appear the great ogre. He often justified his behavior with the excuse that he only need think of this man, the man who had stolen his daughter's future, a few weeks out of the year; surely he could not be so greatly punished for losing his cool so infrequently.

"No thank you, m'lord," Tom replied stiffly, the deference leaving his lips so easily, a rote response that Lord Grantham had never bothered to offer the chance to eliminate from the vocabulary of his former employee. "I will fetch him and see that he his properly dealt with and this is put right."

After ruffling Alfie's dark hair, instructing the child to stay with his ma, and trading a final, knowing look with his wife he set off to find his oldest son and find out what had motivated such an outburst.

Alfie, now no longer concerned with the goings-on of his brother and the adults, set about jumping over the books, leaving the three adults to shuffle awkwardly.

"You know," the Dowager began, her raspy voice conveying the warning of scandal. "I have heard of this kind of behavior before. A dear friend of mine had a son who began shouting obscenities uncontrollably and they had to institutionalize him. Quite unfortunate, I believe the young man died there."

Lord Grantham sighed, his eyes pleading heavenward.

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**To be continued…**

**Thanks for reading and stay tuned to find out what is going on with the Branson's first born!**


	2. Chapter 2

**For Good**

**Part 2**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Sorry for the huge note here, but when I started this story I expect series 3 to go much differently than what we got. My idea was to finish this story based off the character growth I expected to see in Lord Grantham, and his reaction to married Sybil and Tom and their baby. Yeah…so when S3 happened I lost the spark to write for his character. But a friend of mine wanted to know what happened to Robbie in the first chapter. Originally this was suppose to be four part story, but I'm not to the point of being able to write like I use to so I wanted to at least give her a truncated version. Nearly two months later, and knowing she is having a rough day today, I am posting this. I'm not sure if I'm forever ending this story here, but for now at least there are some answers. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! Overwhelming! I wanted to get this done today so it is (as usual) unbeta'd. **

**For babageneush; feel better babe! (Sorry it took so long ^_^)**

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"Robbie, sit up," Tom scolded quietly, doing his best not to draw attention to his eldest child.

For his part, Robbie merely rolled his eyes before begrudgingly shifting straighter in his seat.

Tom's eyes caught the confused and concerned expression on his wife's face, and shrugged. He didn't know what was going on.

It was Robbie's birthday, marking six years since he'd entered the world, forever changing his parents' lives. He'd been so excited since receiving his grandmama's letter, informing him that he would be allowed to join the adults at the dinner table that evening in celebration. He'd packed his best suit three days before they had left Ireland, he'd talked about it nonstop on the trip over, he'd jumped out of the car as soon as they'd arrived at Downton and ran to his grandpapa, begging permission to sit next to him at the table; but not anymore. All that had changed two days ago following the incident in the library.

His son still refused to discuss the matter. He'd apologized, he'd picked up each and every book and taken his punishment of no dessert and early bed time with equanimity. But despite his and Sybil's threats, coaxing, or manipulations, Robbie stood firm.

It had finally been Sybil who had taken her first born into her arms, and with a significant look at her husband, received a promise from her child that he would never act that way again and declared the matter at an end.

Lord Grantham had huffed and puffed in his grand irritated manner, but in the face of Robbie's stiff-lipped apology and the nearly three hours it took him to put the library to rights, there was little more the Earl could do.

The matter had not gone ignored however, the family discussing it that night at dinner, each putting forth questions and guesses as to why the normally polite, loving child had acted out so wildly. The long-suffering parents had endured snarky, snide, and belittling insults, which were seen as innocent and teasing by those giving them, as long as they could before Tom followed Sybil's example and, politely as possible, brought the topic to a close.

He and Sybil had lain in bed that night, trying to figure out what had happened until finally deciding they would just have to wait for Robbie to tell them one day. Tom had teased Sybil that it could be a long time before Robbie made up his mind to tell them, referencing his wife's reticence at accepting his proposal of marriage to which Sybil had responded with a pinch to his side, reminding him of a certain incident involving a pot of slop and how such demonstrations were a Branson trait.

When morning had dawned the next day, Tom had been pulled from his sleep by a small voice calling out to him.

He heard Sybil mumble something in his ear before sighing in her sleep.

Cracking open one eye, the blurry image of his child filled his view.

"Robbie?" his voice had squeaked, causing Sybil to stiffen against him, waking at the sound of her child's name.

"Da, I don't want to go to my birthday dinner anymore," the boy had announced without preamble.

Tom had blinked at him, shaking his head, trying to think clearly. "What?"

"My special birthday dinner, with the adults at the big table," Robbie had explained with the naturally ingrained impatience of a child. "I don't want to go anymore."

And thus had begun a two day battle, resulting in a sulking Robbie sat at the table, with a very nervous Da and Mama making eyes at him, willing him to behave, or at the very least sit up.

"Robbie," The Dowager called, "Did you enjoy your afternoon games?"

All the cousins had come together for a party, with biscuits and games.

"Yes Ma'am" he mumbled.

"Robbie," Sybil scolded, "Your great-granny is talking to you, please speak up and show some respect."

"Why?" the child demanded suddenly, loudly, his face growing dark.

"That's enough Robbie," Sybil snapped, "if you can't act like the sweet and respectful little boy I raised then you will leave the table."

An uncomfortable silence crept around the table like a dense grey fog as two sets of blue eyes glared at each other.

Tom hated the added pressure of the room. It wasn't enough to deal with a wayward child, but to have to do so in front of a family that thought less of him, in front of servants who despised him, under their ever watchful and judging gazes, only added to the stress.

"Obey your mother," he commanded.

Robbie's face flew to his father's. "Fine!" he shouted, overcome by the eyes of the room. "I didn't want to eat this stupid dinner anyway!"

"Robbie!" a stunned Sybil cried, doing her best to push away from the table and stand. "Mama, I'm so sorry—"

"Apologize to your grandmamma now," Tom demanded, the two speaking over each other.

"I won't," Robbie vowed, crossing his arms angrily, his voice swelling with force. "Why should I? I'm no good. Grandpapa said so. I'm no good!"

Everyone went very still.

Lord Grantham's face, which had moments earlier been a mask of barely contained ire, morphed into a perfect cast of confusion.

"I beg your pardon?" the Earl said as several pairs of dismayed eyes turned to him. "I said no such thing."

Robbie was breathing hard now, his cheeks pink with splotches of red forming on his neck, his blue eyes, so like his fathers, growing glassy and wet. "You did," he stated boldly, swallowing his tears. "I heard you, in the library."

For his part Lord Grantham looked truly perplexed. "Robbie I would never say such a thing about you."

"You didn't say it about me," the boy explained.

A very confused Sybil tried to reason with him. "Robbie, you're not making any sense. I think perhaps you misheard or misunderstood—"

"No," he insisted. "I know what I heard. I was hiding in there, under the big red seat, waiting for Cousin William to come find me. We were playing. But Grandpapa, Great Granny and that Mr. Murray came in. They didn't know I was there."

Sybil felt a moment of dread as her father's face finally registered some recognition; his eyes closing with shame. Her Granny took a sharp breath, clearly understanding where this was going.

"Robbie, dear," the matriarch began, but Robbie ignored her and continued his story.

"Mr. Murray was asking Grandpapa about some money, your money Mama, something called doe money."

"Doe money?" Mary asked, voicing everyone's confusion.

"He means dowry," Lord Grantham supplied with a sigh, "And I really don't think it's appropriate to encourage the boy to speak about a private conversation he overhead while hiding."

Lady Grantham frowned at her husband. "I want to hear what 'the boy' has to say." And turning to her grandson smiled softly. "Go ahead Robbie."

The young child hesitated, his eyes darting between his father and grandfather, suddenly unsure. For a moment he doubted, doubted whether he had heard correctly, doubted whether he should speak, doubted whether he'd grasped the meaning behind his grandfather's words. He had been so sure, in the way a child is always so confident, but here, at the grownup's table, he wavered.

Finally his eyes settled on his father, his da. Robbie didn't understand a lot, he knew in Ireland he was the only boy at his school to have an Earl for his grandpapa, but it was all he ever knew so it wasn't strange to him. He knew other children didn't have a place like Downton Abbey to visit, but he couldn't image a summer without getting to come here. He knew his da's normally smiling face would tense up as they crossed the sea, but he never truly understood why. He was lost in a world of awareness, the transition from child to young man, on the precipice insight. But it was the understanding he saw in his father's face that convinced him to speak. The same eyes both younger and older, seeing the same thing.

"Mr. Murray asked Grandpapa what he wanted to do with the money left from Mama's doe…doe-ree," he stumbled, still unsure of the word. "And Grandpapa said he wasn't sure and that no one ever gave him a book on what to do when your daughter marries some good for nothing, damned fool Irishman."

Sybil's eyes grew large with shock, her gaze flew to her father, then her son, and finally her husband. She couldn't have heard correctly, not this, not after all this time. But the shame and heartache that burned on Tom's face testified to the truth. Everyone sat frozen, waiting, as the words her little boy had uttered buzzed about, stinging the lies of complacency. And it hurt.

"And they all laughed," Robbie continued, losing his fear amid his comfort at being the center of attention, "Only I think that if Grandpapa thinks Da's no good, then he's gotta think I'm no good either, because I'm an Irishman too."

His statement was met with a stony silence.

"Papa, Granny, please tell me he misheard," Sybil's voice quietly pleaded.

For once the Dowager Countess of Grantham stayed silent.

"It was meant as a joke," the Earl explained, his arrogance refusing to recognize the foolishness of his claim.

"A joke?" Sybil parroted in disbelief. "To belittle my husband in front of his son?"

"For heaven's sake," Robert cried, "I didn't know the boy was there. If I had, of course I wouldn't—"

The Earl was cutoff as Tom suddenly stood. "I'm sorry Lady Grantham, if you'll please excuse me." Without another word he moved around the grand table, ignoring the look from Carson, and carefully took his son's small hand into his own.

"Tom?" Sybil called out, not a reprimand, just a question.

Turning to face a table of his betters, he answered, "I thought it was enough to quietly bear it, to ignore it. I was wrong. _We_ were wrong. I could stand it as long as it was about me, but I won't stay another moment, not another moment when it makes my son feel like less of a person."

"What are you going to do?" Cora asked, her years of training nearly perfectly hiding her panic.

Tom hesitated, his eyes following their natural course to his wife's beautiful face, "I will take Robbie up to bed, then Sybil and I will discuss what we need to do. I appreciate your hospitality Lady Grantham but I feel that I, at least, should take a room in the village."

"There's no need for such dramatics," the Earl insisted. "It was one comment."

"No," Sybil replied, slowly pulling her cumbersome body out of her chair. "Tom's right, enough is enough." Directing her comments to her husband she said, "Take Robbie up, I'll be there in a moment."

It was left to those at the table to try and decipher the wordless conversation that played out between the former chauffer and his lady. Eventually Tom nodded, moving him and Robbie towards the door.

"Did I do wrong Da?" Robbie asked, his voice small and sad. "I didn't mean to mess things up."

Tom's response was lost as they moved through the doorway and out of the dinning room.

Sybil turned to her father. "For nearly seven years Tom Branson has been my husband, your son-in-law. And in all that time you've never gotten to know him, and not because you couldn't, but because you wouldn't even try. Despite how I have begged you to give him a chance, you still chose to dislike him. I know this because if you knew him you would never call him good for nothing."

"Sybil—" her father tried.

She spoke over him, "He has bore your condescension and disdain because I asked him to. He has never once asked me to give up my family, to choose between him and you. My husband of eight years, a proud, hardworking man, takes your snide comments with calm patience because I asked him to. My father of 30 years can't even be bothered to try, even when I plead with him to. Tom has made a career for himself, he has risen to become a well respected reporter with political aspirations, who makes difficult personal sacrifices to ensure his family is well provided for. And men like you, who've had so much privilege handed to them, can't understand that so you mock it, belittle it. You laugh at him. You humiliate him."

Her accusations left a bitter taste.

"I realize now it has been unfair for me to expect so much from him. I was so desperate to keep both of my families. I wanted so much to believe that one day you would accept us that I was willing to put up with the lies, the pretense. I was wrong. And now my son too is paying the price."

She too moved towards the door, following the path her husband and son had moments previous traveled.

"Sybil," Cora called, "Please don't go."

Offering her mother a sad smile, Sybil could only shake her head, her eyes growing glassy, before turning away from her family and pulling the door shut behind her.

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**Thanks so much for reading! I hate sounding so insecure, but this show literally destroyed a part of my fanfic writing because the characters were so wildly different in S3, that I truly doubt my understanding of them as characters, and thus feel so uncertain in writing them now. But hopefully it isn't too rough, and I do apologize for the wait!**


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